The Slayer
by Crysania
Summary: Written for the Rumbelle Christmas in July fic/art exchange. Prompts given were: Dark One Slayer, angst, love


The first time she sees him she's all of sixteen years old and still feels very much a child. It's at a ball, for someone. She's never been quite sure. Her mind tends to wander back to the fantasies of her books. Handsome heroes and evil wizards. She often wonders why the evil wizard and the handsome hero can't be the _same_ but her tutors assure her this is never the case. _Evil shows on the outside, dearest_. Words to live by apparently but still she _wonders_. She says nothing of the sort, of course, for fear they will dismiss them as the musings of a child.

But she dreams. And imagines, holding all those ideas deep inside her mind, only letting them fly free when alone.

She's on the outskirts of the dancing when she sees him. Gold skin, wild hair. He's not dancing, but watching, his eyes narrowed on _something_ just beyond the set of dancers. He looks to have as much use for the frivolity of it all as she does.

Something stirs inside her.

And she remembers.

 _Evil shows on the outside._

She thinks they must find him terribly evil, for so _different_ does he look. She finds herself moving closer, watching him as he watches whatever it is that holds his interest.

"Dearest…" She tries to ignore the voice of her governess, but when the woman reaches out a hand to grip her upper arm, she's pulled back and forced to face her.

"Who is that man?" she can't help but ask. The woman's lips, already pale and thin, narrow.

"That's _him_." There's no more she needs to say as she drags Belle away from him. _The Dark One_. And now she knows why they all leave such a wide berth around him. The evil wizard to Gaston's handsome hero, apparently.

But Gaston is not the one who is supposed to slay this evil dragon.

 _She_ is.

"Shouldn't I…" she starts to ask.

The governess's hand tightens on her arm. "It's too early." There's something protective there. She's heard the whispers, _slayer_ , she's heard the arguments, _why her? Can't we find someone else to do it?...Gaston…_ She's heard the pleas and seen the blank look in her father's eyes, _she's all I have left…_

Words she's spent what feels like a hundred years blocking out. Books were easier than the tears hiding in the corners of her father's eyes. Stories were easier than seeing the furtive glances, _but she's not ready yet_ , the harsh voices. Fantasies were easier than the sidelong glances the villagers sent her way, _she's the one_.

She's hidden in her books for so long she's not sure how to come out of them at this point.

* * *

The second time she sees him is some three years after the previous. He's been holed up in his castle high on a hill. She's been told he's seeking _something_ but no one knows what. He's disappeared and she's amazed at how fast his name goes to legend in her village.

She knows he's not a legend though.

She can almost _sense_ him.

And so when he shows up at yet another ball, flitting about the edges of the dancers, she's already watching him. She's more prepared now, silver knife tucked into the strap she keeps on her thigh. There's a slit hidden deep in the folds of her dress and only she knows where it is. It's easy enough to put her hand in and retrieve the knife.

 _It won't kill him, girl. But it will incapacitate him enough to retrieve the dagger_.

The dagger. It's all she's heard about for the past two years. Get the dagger, kill the Dark One. She was born to this life, perhaps short and frightening. She must face him, outcome unknown. Even the fairies who branded her as slayer are not forthcoming on the outcome. _It's murky, we cannot say for sure._

But there's fear in their eyes.

They know something and they're not telling.

She watches him as he moves about the room. His features are sharp, slightly hooked nose, narrow face with almost too-wide eyes. His hair is wild, untamable curls that stand just a little bit on edge. He looks like no one she knows and she finds herself strangely drawn to him.

When he disappears into the crowd, she follows, wending her way through the dancers, uncaring of what goes on in their midst. Laughter surrounds her and more than one person reaches out to draw her into the madness of the dance. She shrugs them all off, intent, focused. There is nothing in that moment but _him_.

When she emerges on the other end, she finds herself at the doors to the outside garden. She hesitates, her hand settling on the handle to the door.

 _Could this be the moment?_

Glancing behind her, _no one's watching_ , she pulls the door open and disappears into the darkness outside.

"It seems you're following me, dearie." The words hit her before her eyes have even completely adjusted to the dark. Quiet, menace, and…something else. _Curiosity_.

He steps out into the half-light left from the door and she shutters the gasp that almost escapes her, clamping down. _Do the brave thing_. They're words to live by, words her mother gave her, the last even. She was on her deathbed and Belle, not sure she could handle the lot her life had handed to her, had been begging her to stay with them. _Do the brave thing_.

"You have me wrong, sir," she says and the words come out with more confidence than her quaking body feels. "I'm simply here for a breath of fresh air."

"Lies," comes the response, before she can even finish the last word, interrupting her with anger and darkness.

He comes closer and she tries to hold her ground, finally backing up just one pace when he's close enough for her to meet his narrowed eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm…" _I'm the one who's come to kill you_. "I'm no one." The words come out on a breathless whisper.

He says nothing for a moment, instead walking a slow circle around her. When he's back facing her, one of his hands comes up and almost touches her cheek before he rears back. "No. No you're not _no one_." He leans a little closer, reptilian eyes meeting her blue ones. "I ask again…" She can feel his breath against her face. He's so close. She wants to reach out and touch him. _Is he even real?_ "Who _are_ you?" His voice is edged with something brittle and dangerous, a darkness she's supposed to be prepared for and she's suddenly sure she's _not_.

"I…" She can't quite get anything out, she feels like she's choking and yet she's certain she's not at the same time. He continues to watch her, frozen as she is, words unable to come.

 _I'm going to fail_.

 _Do the brave thing_.

And then she's moving, trying to reach into her skirt to find the knife, her lifeline, _get the knife, kill the Dark One_.

He's faster than she is, springing forward with completely inhuman speed. Her arms are pinned against her sides and she tries to struggle free but despite his fairly small stature, he's holding her in vice grip. She cannot move, cannot breathe.

"Not so fast, dearie." There's menace behind the words as his hand sweeps down her side, touching lightly, brushing across the corset that suddenly feels too tight, just barely brushing her waist as he continues down the skirts of her dress. His hand plunges into the material. Just in the right place.

 _He knows_.

She doesn't know how, but he _does_.

His hand brushes along her thigh, the skin prickling at the contact. "Sir, you go too far." The words come out harsh, desperate.

"Am I then?" The words are punctuated by a giggle, high-pitched, almost girlish. It should be off-putting. But for some reason as his hand spreads out over her thigh, questing for _something_ , she finds herself leaning in toward him. Just a little.

 _It's a spell…it must be_ …

He finds his prize then, hand come over the hilt of the knife strapped there. She somehow knew he would find it, barely able to bring herself to care as she sways in his grasp.

He doesn't release her right away and she finds herself staring into his eyes ( _close…too close_ ) as his lips slip into a grin, his breath fanning out across her face. She's never been this close to a man ( _creature_ , she's reminded but he doesn't _feel_ like a creature while pressed so closely against her) and it leaves her just a little bit light-headed.

She wants to pull away, but can't.

She wants to scream at him, but can't.

So she stays until he finally releases her to step back, his hand brushing her thigh in a way that causes a little frisson something…of fear, of… _don't think on that Belle…_

"And what do have we here?" There's an edge to his voice, part humor, part darkness. He waves the knife in front of her and she realizes just how _frail_ it looks dangling from his long, clawed fingers. _How did I ever imagine that could hurt him?_

He seems nigh on invincible, half human, half fae. One hand rests on his hip, while the other moves the knife back and forth, hypnotic, head cocked half to the side.

"It's…"

"Did you think you could _kill_ me with this?" _He knows who you are._ "Oh my dearie, they have certainly done you a disservice." He makes a tisking noise with his tongue and tosses the knife back to her.

She catches it without thinking, the familiar weight of it coming to rest in her fingers. _It won't kill him, darling…but it_ will _incapacitate him_ …

She stands up to her full height, which she admits is not very intimidating. "Of course not."

"Then…" He waves one hand in the air and makes a small titter of amusement.

She has nothing to say to that. How can she tell him what she plans? What she's been told she must do? _Kill him_. It's her destiny, or so they say. _You will be the one to end the Dark One._ The fairies have predicted it and what choice does she have to go along with it? Kept in the shadows, darkness surrounding her. She has few friends, her tutors, the governess, her books. But she will be lauded as a hero or so the stories go that she's been raised on.

 _It's your duty, Belle._

She turns on her heels then. What more can she say to him? She doesn't get far before he reaches out, one hand coming down on her upper arm and pulling her back, back…until she's tight against him. She can feel every bit of him against her back, pressed into her as one of his arms comes around her waist.

He's warm.

Real.

 _Human_.

And she wonders, not for the first time, if perhaps he's not some creature of darkness and evil, but simply a man.

Pressed up against her as he is now, she is sure he is nothing more. His lips come near her ear and she finds herself moving her head into the feel of his breath ghosting across her neck, her cheek. She should move _away_. She knows this, and yet it seems she simply _cannot._ One hand comes up to brush lightly across his face, to touch the curls there.

He makes a small noise, somewhere in the back of his throat and she's not sure if it's surprise or something else. Her experience with the opposite sex has been limited to lessons on fighting. This is all new and she feels completely overwhelmed when she feels his teeth scrape across the shell of her ear, feels his tongue come out and trace where his teeth were a moment ago.

She should stop him.

Should scream, should push him away. Instead she feels a soft moan cross her lips, feels his arm tighten around her. "Who _are_ you?" he whispers. There's a strange note of awe in his voice and it makes her shiver.

 _I'm your destroyer_.

She doesn't want to be.

"Belle?" The voice coming from the doorway makes her head shoot up and she tries to step away. Her governess steps toward them, her mouth making a small "O" as she sees them. "Belle!"

He makes a hissing noise. "This isn't over." The words are whispered in her ear and then he's gone, simply dissolving around her. She almost wishes she could go with him.

Her governess runs to her, stopping short as Belle tries to regain her bearings. She feels cold without his presence around her, without the feel of him at her back, without the feel of his hair as his lips meet her ear. "Belle, child, are you alright?"

She wants to say _no_. She's not sure she'll ever be alright again. But she knows that's not what the governess means. "Yes," she finally manages to get out and nearly cringes at the breathless sound of her own voice. "Yes I'm fine."

"He didn't…" The woman can't even get the words out. _He didn't take advantage of you, did he?_

"No." It's the truth at least. He _didn't_. She allowed it, _craved_ it. Even now she feels a weird, tingly feeling, a warmth spreading through her that makes her want to reach down and feel herself _there_. She bites back the giggle that almost erupts from her, wondering what her governess would think if she could hear such thoughts. "I'm fine," she says and her voice is finally stronger, more her own. "Really. Let's just…go back inside."

She'll find a place to hide and relive those moments when she's alone.

 _I'm supposed to kill him_.

She doesn't know what to do now, her fingers coming to rest on the knife that she's put back into the holster on her thigh.

 _I don't want to kill him_.

* * *

There are no more balls after that as the kingdom slowly falls apart around them.

 _Ogres_.

The word was meaningless for so long, just something used to terrify young children into behaving. But the ogres have come and with them comes death, destruction, terror. She tries to block out the screams, the sound of the clubs as they're brought down on buildings and people alike.

There's no negotiating with them. They are not human, they do not have human needs. And the Gods know they have tried. They want nothing more than destruction. Their land, reclaimed once more into the forest the ogres live in, hide in. Destruction of all that is humankind. It seems little else drives them and how does one negotiate with that? There's no room for compromise. They want them _gone_ , destroyed, all evidence wiped out with one swipe of their clubs.

And so they fight and watch as the ogres continue to encroach on their territory, moving ever closer to the heart of their world. Little stands between them except one small village and the castle they reside in. Even that is crumbling, barely able to withstand the near-constant onslaught.

Her mother is gone. Her friends are gone. So few are left standing, gathering day after day in the scant safety the castle affords.

"Sir, we have to do something," Gaston is saying. He's a large man, tall and broad and just a bit too in love with himself for comfort. Her father has nearly completed a betrothal to him, begging for men from his neighboring village. Gaston often reaches out to pull her close to him and she remembers all too well a different pair of arms that held her close.

She pulls away from Gaston whenever he tries.

She didn't pull away from the man ( _creature, they remind her_ ) who she now knows is named Rumplestiltskin, here in this life. There have been others before him and she wonders how one takes on the mantle of the Dark One. It seems even those who train her don't know for they shake their heads at her questions. He's shrouded in mystery, darkness, a horror that causes people to be unable to speak his name.

Books. They're the only thing willing to give answers. There his name was written and while she's not spoken his name aloud, she knows it, feels the syllables roll around in her head like the ever moving wheels of a carriage. She wants to say his name, but she shies away from it. Years of fear and _Don't say his name and he won't come_ whispered in the dark of night.

"We need to call on him," her father says and she feels something go through her. It should be fear. _It should be fear_. But it's not.

 _Excitement_.

 _Memories._

 _She remembers the feeling of him, hard up against her back._ She told no one of what really happened there. Her governess had had _words_ with her, angry, frightened words. Her father had been relieved that she had survived her first encounter with him, throwing her at Gaston soon after. She's tried _everything_ to remember the feel of _him_ and not Gaston's overly firm grasp.

"No!" Gaston shouts and she watches as he rushes across the room, sword at the ready. "We _fight_."

"We _have_ been fighting," someone says and Belle realizes it's _her_. She's allowed in the war council room only by grace of her father and her precarious position as the Slayer. As long as she stays quiet. As long as she stays _meek_.

 _Do the brave thing…_

"Belle," Gaston starts and comes to put his hands on her shoulders. "Don't speak of things you know nothing of."

" _I_ know nothing? It's all I've lived with my entire life!" She pushes his hands away and she's surprised that he releases her so easily. His eyes are wide and there's an odd, pinched look to his mouth. She doesn't have time for him, doesn't _care_ about him. Her father may want her to marry the big lout, but she wants nothing of it. She'll die a spinster before marrying Gaston.

She moves closer to her father, kneels at his side. "Father, we have to." And he nods, the circles under his eyes deep and prominent.

"My child…"

"I know," she cuts him off with. "I _know_ what you're going to say." She takes a deep breath. "I can handle myself."

"But my darling child…"

" _Father_." She feels her cheeks heat a little. "This is my destiny." There's no point in reminding him that she's no longer a child, that she has been trained to fight, to defeat him. He father refuses to acknowledge this. They've lived with it her _whole life_. "You know what Mama would say…"

"Do the brave thing," her father says and the corners of his mouth just barely tilt up at the memory.

She reaches out to squeeze his hand. "And bravery will follow." He nods. "Call for him, father. I'm ready for whatever may happen."

"Then we'll do it." Her father's voice is firm.

"But..." Gaston starts to shout from across the room, hand on his sword, ready to fight a foe he cannot possibly win against. She knows this. Surely he must too. But the big lout will fight until he and everyone in their village is crushed beneath their clubs and bootheels.

Her father stands and faces Gaston and she's relieved to see that he seems calm and resolute. He knows it's the right decision, she realizes. And he's going to go forth no matter what Gaston may want. "If you disagree, you're welcome to leave."

Gaston sputters and for a moment she's sure he's going to pull his sword and confront her father. But then he turns on his heels. He's almost to the door when he turns back for a moment. "The betrothal is off." And he send a glare her way.

She almost laughs it's so ridiculous. Does he not realize she doesn't _want_ to marry him?

 _Of course he doesn't, Belle._ Gaston's ego is the ogre in the room no one wants to talk about.

Her father sighs. "We call for him tonight." And then he disappears from the room. She'll have little time to prepare. Not that it matters. She's been preparing for this her entire life.

* * *

The third time she sees him, it starts with a ridiculous ritual her father found in a book. One of _her_ books, no less. Her father isn't much of a reader. Well, truth to be told, he doesn't read at all. He sends one of his trusted advisors to collect any book she has that mentions the Dark One and then finds the most elaborate, more ridiculous ritual he can.

She knows there were better ones.

There was the one that says to call his name three times.

The one that says to send a raven out with the request and it will find him.

The one that says to simply call out for his aid and he will come.

But no, her father cannot just try those. He doesn't believe they'll work. _Just a waste of time, my dear_. So he sets out candles in the shape of a pentagram, draws lines between them with chalk, sets out geodes, incense. It's all a bit overwhelming and she wonders if the Dark One would even _find_ them through the haze in the room.

She almost lets out a giggle before she realizes it would be completely inappropriate. She wonders, for just a moment, if there's more in the incense than she first believed. But then she manages to pull herself together.

Her father is muttering something, looking at the book every few words. Latin, she realizes. Completely butchered and mispronounced Latin, but still Latin nonetheless. She almost offers to read it properly but decides it's better to just stay out of it. No sense interfering in the nonsense her father is implementing. He needs the pomp, the ceremony. He needs to feel like he's done _something_ to draw the Dark One out to them. She's almost sure that he needs it just to focus his mind away from what might happen when she comes face to face with the Dark One.

"Are you trying to summon a demon, dearie?" The voice comes from behind her and she freezes for a moment before whipping around to see him standing there. He leans casually in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. It's been some three years but he hasn't changed much. The hair might be slightly wilder, the face maybe a tad bit more pointed. He looks gaunt, truth to be told, and she wonders what could cause such a change in a man rumored to be immortal.

"I…" her father sputters over the word. "We…"

"Yes yes out with it." He waves one hand in the air. "I haven't got all day, you know."

Belle heaves a sigh and steps out of her dark corner. "The ogres are overrunning our village."

"Well, of course they are…" His voice fades out on the last syllables as the light hits her. "You!" he manages to spit out, one clawed finger pointing at her.

"Yes," she says simply.

He moves closer, almost stalking her, slips behind her for a moment before coming to face her. "You," he says again and this time the word is quieter. His eyes are intent as he studies her and she can't quite imagine what's going through his mind. Has he found out who she is? What she means?

He remembers, that much is for sure. His hand comes up to brush her face lightly and her father steps between them, moving faster than a man of his size probably should be able to. He slaps the Dark One's hand away from her and the smaller man recoils with a hiss.

But there's anger in his eyes and she's afraid her father has ruined their chances.

"You know this creature, Belle?"

She wants to look at her father, but she can't. Her head doesn't turn from the site of the Dark One. Their eyes are locked and she watches as he moves around her father, never dropping that eye contact.

"Yes," she finally manages to choke out. She wants to scream _Man!_ He's not a creature. No, not this one. His skin may look like mottled scales, his eyes may look reptilian, but there's more than a small element of humanity left in him. She's sure of it.

 _He's mesmerizing._ He almost floats as he moves. She can't stop watching him as he circles back around to her. He's not even watching her father anymore. He's no longer important and she knows this. "Why does it always come back to you?" he asks and the high-pitched strident note to his voice has disappeared. He stays back from her, his head cocked slightly to the side, like a curious but wary dog.

It takes her a moment to realize he's waiting for her to respond. "It seems so."

"Why?"

She offers a small shrug. _I'm the Slayer_. She's the harbinger of his destruction. She refuses to look away from him as he moves closer, studies her.

"I will help you," he finally says.

She hears her father breathe a sigh of relief and manages to glance his way for one small moment before the Dark One speaks again.

"For a price." There's a finality to the words. She knows what the price will be. She knows that she will pay it and willingly. Anything to protect her people. Anything to save her father. He's all she has left in the world.

"Name it," Belle says before her father can interfere.

The Dark One offers a small titter, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together. His mouth widens into a grotesque parody of a smile. He leans toward her and she realizes this is all for drama. He's a showman, she and her father his audience of two. He holds them rapt, waiting, anticipating what he will name. Gold? Jewels? They have little but will give it all if needed. Land? There's plenty of that. Forested and currently inhabited by ogres. She knows her father will give it up without even needing to question it.

He crooks a finger at her.

"Belle," her father warns from across the room.

She doesn't heed him, stepping closer to the Dark One and waiting as he leans closer, one hand lightly running town her hair, touching her cheek, stroking along her neck. There's a rumble from her father, deep in his chest, she knows the sound all too well. And then… "You."

"Me." It's not even a question. She knew. Down deep, somewhere, she knew this was how it would all go down, had seen the ending of their Ogre War in the magic of the Dark One, in her fall from grace.

"Never!" her father shouts and his hand is on her arm, pulling her back before she can blink. "I forbid it!"

"Father!"

The Dark One makes a gesture, almost inconsequential, and her father is thrown back. "You don't get to make that decision." His voice is strangely conversational when he speaks, as if this situation is nothing out of the ordinary for him.

She shudders.

Takes a deep breath.

 _You have no choice…_ She never had a choice, not when it comes to the Dark One. Her downfall and his destruction. No mere rumor, she is what she is and she knows what her answer must be. "I will go with you."

Her father lets out a moan from where he's trapped on the other side of the room.

"It's forever, dearie." The Dark One's hands are steepled together, both of his forefingers pointing at her. There's a strange sort of light in his eyes as he speaks the words.

 _You're bound to him anyway_.

"I will go with you…" Her father's shouting of her name interrupts her, but for only a moment. "…forever," she finishes with.

The Dark One lets out a little titter and steps toward her.

She puts up a hand. "Release him."

"You don't get to…"

"I deserve to say goodbye," she cuts him off with.

"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" There's almost a pout to his face as he speaks, as if he expects her to simply follow him blindly.

She says nothing, just waits.

"Fine then." With a wave of his hand her father is rushing toward her. "You have five minutes," the Dark One says and he disappears in a puff of red smoke. She almost smiles at that. She's read enough on magic to know the smoke is not a necessary part of it. _Showman_ , she reminds herself.

"Belle, you can't," her father is saying, reaching out to take her hands. She grasps them and feels how cold and clammy his are. He's losing her to her fate. She's sure he hoped this day would never come.

"Father…" She's not sure what words to say. _This is what has to happen_. "It's my fate," she reminds him.

"I know, but it doesn't have to be…"

"It does." She offers a smile, knowing that it's a sad imitation of better days. "This was what I was born to do, Father. You know that." He heaves a sigh and she reaches out a hand to touch his. It may be the last time she sees him, touches him. There's a catch in her voice as she speaks. "I have to go."

He nods and she can see all the fight simply fade out of him. He looks smaller all of a sudden. Her father has always been a big man, tall and broad, a fierce leader of their people. Now he leans to the side, weak, almost frail.

"Promise me you'll be fine," Belle whispers.

Her father offers her a watery smile. "That should be my line, I'm sure."

She blinks her eyes a few times. _I will not cry_. She has to be strong, face this. _It's your destiney._ "Do the brave thing."

"And bravery will follow," her father finishes with. "Your mother would be so proud of you."

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. _I will not cry_.

"I will be back." The words are resolute. "That much I promise."

He nods once more and his eyes drift closed. "Go. We will light a candle for you."

And then she's standing and feels the magic as it surrounds her. Her last sight of her father is his slumping back and letting out such a cry that the anguish pierces her heart.

* * *

Their first days at the castle are rife with difficulties. Rumplestiltskin expects her to wait on him hand and foot. And Belle? Well, this wasn't quite what she expected when going with the Dark One.

He watches her as she goes about her tasks. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her as she dusts a castle that she knows can clean itself by magic. _Of course it can, dearie. But it's_ your _job now_ , he says with a titter before returning to the wheel that he spends most of the day moving.

The creak of the wheel is enough to drive one mad. Around and around and around. Every time she looks at him, he's watching the wheel, his lips set in a thin line, shoulders tense. And yet as soon as she looks away, she feels him watching her again. She wonders if it's magic. She wonders if _everything_ there is magic. Is the castle even real? Is _he_?

He says little to her in those early days, choosing instead to study her when he thinks she won't notice. She does much the same. She has to find a weakness, find a way through his armor. She's always known it wouldn't be easy.

It's even less so now.

In those unguarded moments at his wheel he seems…human. She well remembers the feel him against herself, pressing into her, tight muscles beneath leather, hand gentle as it stroked her thigh before grasping her knife.

She wears it still. And she wonders if he knows this. His eyes stray down her legs sometimes and she's almost positive he's remembering the same exchange _she_ is.

It's late one night, sometime into her fifth week, when she comes across him in his tower. She's taken to wandering the halls at night, getting a feel for the place. The castle is massive and she's almost positive that hallways move around her for sometimes she's sure she's heading to the kitchen and suddenly finds herself facing the door to the garden.

Wandering has become her new habit, perhaps more so than reading. There's no books here, save the one she managed to tuck away into her dress before he swept her away. Her favorite. But even that doesn't entertain her for long. She craves new books, new adventures. And for now, her adventure is watching the enigmatic Rumplestiltskin.

"So this is where you disappear to?" The words escape her mouth before she means them to. _Explore, examine, wait for him to notice you_. Yet she cannot step herself from speaking.

He nearly drops whatever he's holding onto and whips around to face her. She feels a bit of a flush come to her face as she finally really focuses on him. It's warm in the tower, too warm, bubbling cauldrons creating a fog around him. He's stripped from the waist up, the dragonhide jacket he parades around in tossed over a chair, the ruffled shirt tossed haphazardly in a pile on the floor.

The skin of his chest is as mottled as that on his face, glistening like scales running down his thin frame. Her hands itch with wanting to _touch_. Will he feel like the soft smoothness of the fish she remembers plucking from the sea when she was a child? Or is he rough, like the toads her childhood friend used to hide in her bed? She almost takes a step toward him before she notices the strange glint in his eyes.

"Don't you think sneaking up on sorcerers at work is a dangerous thing to do?" His voice is pitched low and she crosses her arms over her chest as she takes a deep breath.

"I didn't mean…"

"You didn't mean to?" He takes a step toward her and she watches as his eyes fall briefly on the discarded shirt.

 _He's nervous. Exposed._

She can use this knowledge and has to stop her hand from reaching down to the strap at her thigh. Instead, she follows suit and steps toward him, enters into the dance. Life and death, she realizes. Her life, his death. Or the opposite.

"Somehow I doubt that very much," he continues and his voice turns almost conversational. As she steps even closer to him she can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, watches as one small drop of sweat makes its way down his chest. She wants to lick, to taste the saltiness of it. _What does his skin taste like?_

She blinks hard as she realizes he's come within a few feet of her. "What are you doing to me?" she asks and her voice sounds breathless even to her ears.

His brow crinkles just slightly and she finds herself fascinated with the way the scales move. He steps closer and she's sure she's stopped breathing, feels the air sucked right out of her lungs. She's drowning and the only thing she can do is reach out and touch him, running her hands down from his shoulder to his chest.

His skin is smooth. She somehow knew it would be. Smooth like that fish she once plucked out of the ocean. Soft, and she spreads her fingers out over his ribcage. He hisses as she makes more contact with him and when she looks up to meet his eyes, his are wide. She sees _something_ lurking there in their depths, but she can't define it, isn't sure she _wants_ to define it.

"What am I doing to _you_?" he whispers and his face is close to hers, too close. He takes another step closer to her and she's forced to lower her hand for fear it ends up trapped between them. "What are you doing to _me_?" There's a strange bit of wonder there in his voice. Half wonder, half…something she can't quite define.

"I…"

His finger comes up and touches her lips.

Her lips open almost of their own accord, breathing in his scent, wondering what might happen if she touches the tip of her tongue to his finger. She doesn't. She can't. Moving is almost impossible as he leans closer, his mouth coming finally to rest at the juncture of neck and shoulder. His tongue comes out to flick at her skin there and she wraps an arm around him, splaying her fingers across his back, just to keep herself upright.

Her breaths come in ragged gulps as his teeth come out to worry at the skin there, small nibbles that leave her knees bending slightly. She sways against him and he uses one hand to steady her, pulling her tight against him as he makes his way up her neck to her ear, pulling her earlobe into his mouth, suckling lightly. "The question is still…" And his voice is nearly as breathless as she imagines her own would be. "Who _are_ you?"

And then she remembers.

She knows who she is.

What she's here for. Her purpose, her training, her _life_.

 _You're the Slayer_.

She reaches down quickly, the movement practiced, pulling the knife from its hidden spot on her thigh. "I'm your downfall." The words come out on a hiss and even as she's pulling her arm back with the knife, readying herself for the attack, she's sure she doesn't want to do this. It feels _wrong_ somehow.

 _He's not been unkind to her._

There's been tea that she finds in her room and a soft feather bed and while she's worked hard at tasks she's sure she didn't need to, she's not been mistreated.

But this is _her life_ and this is what she was born to do. And so she plunges forward, the knife sliding in between ribs, ripping through muscle and ligaments. He stumbles back from her, head down, arms spread out. Her knife is ripped out of her hand and she's left standing alone, a few feet away from him.

He doesn't move and for a moment she thinks it worked. He's stopped, frozen, cannot move. This is how the knife works. It's meant to stop him, give her enough time to find the dagger that can kill him.

 _What have I done?_

She feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she wonders if she should run now or later, should she wait and see what it does to him? Is the dagger here? She hasn't even had time to look for it and she wonders why she's done this _now_. She felt almost compelled, really, that little voice in her head driving her on.

It's been there as long as she can remember, pushing at her, screaming at her. _End him_ …

His head shoots up and she lets out a gasp. His eyes are narrowed, focused on her. And then he laughs.

It's a horrible, grating sound. Somewhere between a giggle and a wheeze. When it finally fades away he rushes toward her. "Did you forget that this thing can't kill me?" He's standing right in front of her when he reaches down and pulls it out, reddish-purple smoke surrounding it before disappearing and revealing completely smooth skin.

She has to blink a couple times and clear her vision to convince herself she's seeing what is really there.

He holds the knife up. "You agreed to come here." He holds up one finger and points it at her. "It was our deal. Now you think you're going to break it? _No one_ breaks deals with Rumplestiltskin."

She holds her hands up, attempts to push back from him but he just follows her. "That's not it at all."

 _I'm your doom_ ,

"No?"

"No."

"Then…" He lets the word hang.

He's baiting her, she realizes. "You know," she says on a gasp.

"Of course I do."

"But then…"

"You can't kill me," he points out. "They never can."

"The dagger," she says and holds up her hands helplessly. _He knows_. He's been toying with her, all this time, waiting for her to make this move.

He moves forward suddenly, the knife, _her_ knife, held to her throat before she can even attempt an escape. "Just what do you know of the dagger." The knife presses just a little more into her on the final word. She feels a small pinch of pain.

"It can kill you," she says on a gasp.

"So you thought to incapacitate me with this tiny knife and then what? Steal the dagger and end my life?"

 _He knows_.

"It's my destiny."

He lets out a small bark of laughter. "And then you'll go home to your village, the conquering hero." The hand not holding the knife rises, a bit of dramatic flair to the words.

"Something like that," she mutters.

His grin widens. "And just how _would_ they welcome home the new Dark One?"

"What?"

"Oh." The word is said with a smirk. "You don't know then, do you?" When she shakes her head, he backs just slightly away from her, dropping the knife as he does so. She feels like she can finally manage to breathe. "Those little fairies, and I do assume the fairies are behind this? Yes, that's what I thought. It seems they've left off one very tiny, but very pertinent detail."

She knows what he's going to say before he says it, but she has to wait for the words anyway. Even if it mean everything she's ever known is false, that everything the fairies and in turn her father and mother and the tutors have taught her was a complete and utter lie.

"If you kill me with the dagger, you take my place."

* * *

Everything changes after that moment. Rumplestiltskin's first reaction is to toss her into one of the dungeons. He seems both amused and angry at the same time and she's not sure which one she should be more frightened of.

If either, really.

For a jailer, he's rather kind. She has pillows to sleep on and food that arrives three times a day.

And when he comes to get her on the fourth day of the second week, there's a pinched look about his face. "You're not going to go trying to kill me again, are you?" There's almost a pout to his voice.

She shakes her head, mute. What does one say to the man you've tried to kill? What does one say to the man you allowed to take such liberties with? Belle tries to pretend it was done to distract him from her main purpose, but the truth is she _enjoyed_ it. She well remembers Gaston's attempts at a kiss, forcing his tongue into her mouth, a sloppy mess that left her wanting to wipe her mouth and then rinse it out with almost anything she could find in the kitchens.

Even now, when she slides past Rumplestiltskin, she feels that little shiver go up her spine. And she realizes she wants more. Nearly two weeks in a dungeon and she still wants more.

What else does she have, really?

Her life has been a lie, a complete sham. Everything has changed and she must change with it. _I don't know who I am anymore_.

She reverts to taking care of the castle, sweeping, setting out tea. The tension is heightened at first and this time Rumplestiltskin doesn't shy away from watching her. He studies her every chance he gets until she finally snaps at him one day.

"I can't kill you."

"No," he responds with, flicking a bit of imaginary dust off his coat. "You can't."

She steps toward him with the tea tray and sets it down in front of him with a loud clatter. "Then why are you constantly watching me?"

He says nothing for a moment and then his eyes drop from hers. "Because…" There's a pause there and she narrows her eyes at him. "Someone has to make sure you're doing your job properly." He waggles a finger at her and offers up a little giggle.

She lets out a little _hmph_ and turns away. He's lying. That much she is sure of. But to what end she can't quite fathom. She's sure he's hiding _something_.

* * *

The weeks begin to blend into each other and they settle into a pattern. She serves him tea and he gives a long-suffering sigh and tells her as long as she's slacking from her other duties, she might as well sit down and take tea with him.

She drops a cup that first time and he waves it away with just a brush of his hand. _It's just a cup_. But then she notices he uses _that_ cup every time he takes tea. She often tries to take it back from him and he's taken to swatting her hand away. It's _his_ cup now.

She stops arguing with him over it.

She needles him about other things, though. About the spinning ( _I spin to forget_ ), about the dusty curtains that are forever closed ( _Then you get up there and open them if you want to, dearie_ ), about the people who are daring enough to come pounding on his door to make a deal ( _They're no better than vermin, dearie, you'd best remember that_ as he lets yet another person in the door and makes a deal that she's sure benefits _them_ more than _him_ ).

It's one afternoon after a particularly trying deal when he discovers her love of reading.

"You're awfully slow," he says, waving one hand in the air as he walks past her.

"Pardon?" she says, setting the book in her lap.

He waves a hand in the direction of her lap. "I would have expected the daughter of a nobleman to have better reading skills."

She just gapes at him. "This is the fifteenth time I've read this book since I arrived here."

He blinks at her, his large eyes looking oddly owlish. "Fifteenth?"

"Yes."

"But why?" And he seems honestly confused, as if he doesn't realize that his castle has a distinct lack of books.

"There's nothing else to read," she says with a shrug and picks up her book again.

He says nothing more and when she looks up he's gone.

She thinks nothing of the exchange and so a few days later when he comes to her with his hands clapped together and this strange look if _glee_ written on his features, she's curious enough to follow him up the many stairs to the tower opposite the one he spends his time in working on his potions and deals.

She's completely unprepared for what she finds in that tower. Books. Thousands of them, they rise almost higher than she can see, lining the walls in a haphazard mess of titles. Fiction, history, adventure, science. They're all here. "You got these for me?" The words come out before she intends them to.

"Don't be ridiculous," he shoots back. "They've always been here."

She doesn't dare tell him she's explored all the towers and knows this to be a complete falsehood. The last time she was up here, it was nothing but dust and cobwebs. "Of course."

"It's just another room for you to clean."

"Of course," she repeats and can't help the smile that breaks out on her face.

"What are you smiling at?"

She steps closer and wraps her arms around him, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

He backs away and his hands come up slightly defensively. "I'll just leave you to it then." He's gone before she can say anything else, blinking out of existence as if he'd never been there. She lets out a small laugh and wraps her arms around her.

He _cares_.

She wants to go after him, but lets him go. There will be time for that. For now, there are adventures to be had.

* * *

"What are you doing up there?"

She almost loses her grip on the curtain when he speaks. Rumplestiltskin has been gone for a few days, some sort of deal he insists he must make _and don't you go running away now!_ and so the place has been quiet for all that time.

"You said I could open them," she shouts down at him.

"I said no such thing." There's just a slight bit of ire to his voice and she glances down at him.

"You did so. You said if I could get up there and open them, I was welcome to it."

"Well, I didn't expect you to actually _do_ it." He sounds somewhat exasperated and she laughs as she reaches for the curtain. She's balanced awkwardly, leaning out with one hand clinging to the ladder and the other grasping the curtain. It won't budge and she's almost sure he's nailed it down, if he's not keeping it there with the strength of his magic that is.

She shakes her head and uses both hands to tug even harder at it. It comes free, ripping out of what she discovers _are_ nails just moments before she realizes has made a very dreadful mistake. She's overbalanced herself and her hand slips by the ladder as she tries to grab onto it. The curtain, now free from its constraints is no help and it falls from her hands as she lets out a most undignified and unladylike scream.

It's the end and she'd see her life flash before her eyes if she had the time. A second or two, that's all. She hears her name shouted and just half a second later she's landed in something soft, yet firm. She takes a breath, takes stock.

Rumplestiltskin has saved her.

She's cradled in his arms and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. For a moment neither moves and then she finally manages to murmur _thank you_ and he's set her back on her feet. He starts to move away, but she won't let him, turning with him and reaching out an arm to stop him.

"You saved me." The words are whispered.

"It's no matter," he starts to say.

She moves closer. "It _is_. You _saved_ me." And she realizes that he saved her in more than one way. He could have killed her when he discovered she was the Slayer. Instead he's let her live with him, given her a library, left her in peace. It's all she's ever really wanted. Peace and quiet to read, not being forced into a marriage, to bear some arrogant lout's children.

He doesn't move as her hand comes up to touch his cheek, run down the side of his neck, stroke the skin that's revealed by the low cut of the ruffled shirt. "Belle…" He rarely speaks her name and she's certainly never heard it sound so raw.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she murmurs as she leans forward to touch her mouth to that pulse point between neck and shoulder. She's thankful he's only a handful of inches taller than her. It's easy to reach his neck, to touch the tip of her tongue to that spot. He groans and she suddenly feels _powerful_ , reducing the Dark One to _this_. She tries it again, adding teeth and raking them across his skin.

His hands dig into her hair and she's not sure if he's trying to pull her way or keep her close. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and moves further up his neck, just as he did to her. It's artless, she knows. What she knows of seduction and the mechanics of sexual relations comes from books. She's read a few, well, maybe more than a few. She was curious, of course, and her father gave her full leave to visit the library, leaving her alone there for hours. But still, it's nothing compared to what she finds _here_.

When she finally pulls away to look at him, he's watching her through half-closed lids. His hands are in fists at his side and there's tension in every bit of his body. "I'm…" She shakes her head. No. She won't apologize. She's _not_ sorry. "I don't know what I'm doing," she repeats instead.

He nods and she bites her lip, waiting for his response. He groans softly and then reaches up to take both of her hands in his. She looks down, watching the play of light across the mottled skin, the long nails, as he gently grips her own pale hands in his. "Are you quite sure about this?"

 _Is she?_ She can almost hear her governess's gasp of indignation as she answers. "Yes. Yes I am quite sure."

"You can stop it at any time," he points out.

She bites her lip again and then finally nods. "Yes. Yes I know."

And then his hands are on her shoulders and she's turned and pushed back against something. He's the aggressor now and she's thankful for that. She reaches up to find he's pushed her against the ladder. Her hands grip it, keeping herself steady as his mouth comes down on her neck again, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses there, his tongue caressing the skin. It's like the last time, only not. There's no knife here this time, no need to slay the dragon. And one of his hands is making its way up her thigh, touching her lightly through the fabric of her dress.

The hand sweeps up and she realizes he's undoing the laces of her bodice until it hangs open, only her chemise keeping her decent.

 _I don't want to be decent_.

He loosens the fabric and one hand comes up to reverently palm one of the breasts he's revealed. "Beautiful," he murmurs and she finds she can't do anything…can't move, can't think…as his mouth comes down and touches her.

"Oh," escapes her before she can pull the word back. She doesn't remember reading about _this_. Pleasure shoots through her pooling somewhere in her center. His teeth graze her nipple just lightly and she releases the ladder to put her hands into that wild mane of hair. She's wanted to touch it all these years, remembers how she wondered how it would feel when she first saw him. It's soft to the touch and she tugs lightly on it as he continues with his ministrations at one breast and then the other.

She wants to reciprocate. He's still wearing all of his clothing and when she tries to undo any of the ties of his outfit he just slaps her hand away. "Hold onto the ladder," he whispers in her ear, biting down on her ear lobe for a moment before using his tongue to sooth the bite.

She nods and does as he asks and then his hands sweep down, lightly caressing her breasts before touching her waste and reaching for her skirt and bunching it up around her hips. He pulls one of her legs up and drapes it over his arm, opening her legs wide to him. The other hand is making lazy circles around her knee and then up the inside of her thigh.

Her head falls back. She's not even sure what he's doing, what he plans on doing, but all she knows is she wants him to _never ever_ stop.

"Are you sure?" he asks again and the feel of his breath on her ear makes her shiver.

"Gods yes," she barely manages to get out. And then his hand is moving up and one finger parts her folds, lightly running across her center.

He pauses for just a moment and she hears him groan, leaning down to rest his head on her shoulder for just a moment. "You're wet."

"Yes," she murmurs. "I told you I was sure."

He lets out a small laugh and then continues, his finger stroking her lightly and then with a firmer touch, circling that area that she _desperately_ wants him to touch. But then he avoid that, dipping one finger insider her.

"Oh Gods," she murmurs. She didn't know it could be like this. He uses that finger to stroke in and out, adding a second and then a third that stretches her but isn't painful. His thumb comes up and finally touches her _there_ and her hips rock against him as he uses his fingers to continue to stretch her and his thumb to manipulate that small bundle of nerves. "Rumple...I…" She doesn't even know what she's trying to say. She feels tight as a bowstring, tense and yet free and light at the same time. And then the world seems to explode around her.

"Yes," he hisses into her ear and when she starts to collapse, boneless, he lifts her up slightly so she's resting with half her bottom on one of the steps of the ladder. She watches through half-closed eyes as he makes quick work of the laces at the front of his breeches, freeing himself.

She's never _seen_ a man before, not more than what was drawn in the books she'd found in the library, and so she reaches down to wrap her hand around him. He's hard yet soft at the same time and he feels hot and heavy in her hand. He lets out a groan. "If you keep doing that I'm going to be done before we can do much more."

"Oh," she murmurs.

"It's…It's been a long time."

She smiles at his honesty, releasing him and pulling her closer to him. "Then I'd best not," she whispers and he groans.

"You're going to be the death of me," he mutters.

"I thought we already established that I couldn't be."

He laughs as he takes himself in hand and lines himself up with her. "Are you…"

"Yes!" And she wants to kiss him for taking such care with her.

He pushes forward, entering her slowly. Just the tip at first, letting it stretch her as his fingers did. He meets her eyes and waits. She nods. There's no pain. It's slightly uncomfortable for a moment as her body adjusts to him, but it doesn't hurt. He presses forward, slowly, almost _too_ slowly, until she finally reaches around him and pulls him tight against her, burying him to the hilt inside her. They both let out a gasp and he freezes.

"I didn't…"

"No." She interrupts him with. "I'm not hurt."

He takes another deep breath before pulling out and pushing in again and she lets out another gasp. None of this matches what she read in the books. It's supposed to hurt, it's supposed to be uncomfortable, _just get it over with_. And yet this is beautiful. He sets a steady pace, his arms wrapped around her.

She steadies herself on the ladder with her hands and wraps her legs around him as he continues to thrust in and out of her. And then he brings his hand back to that overly sensitive bundle of nerves, pressing a finger into it.

"Rumplestiltskin! Oh!" The feeling of both combined are close to setting her over the edge. She opens her eyes to watch him and when his eyes meet hers he moves forward, his lips finally capturing hers, his tongue mating with hers almost brutally.

She's set free just a moment later, feeling the magic wend its way around them both, a sort of strange bubbling feeling as she hears his hoarse cry and feels his release inside her.

Boneless, she slumps back against the ladder and Rumplestiltskin follows her, pinning her there with his head tucked into the crook of her neck. He kisses her a few times there and her hand comes up to run through his hair.

As she strokes the damp locks she realizes that something is wrong. She can't quite place it until she gives a piece of his hair an experimental tug. The curl has gone right out of it.

"Rumplestiltskin?" she murmurs.

"Belle," he groans and finally lifts his head from her shoulder to meet her eyes.

"Rumplestiltskin!" She can't help the cry that escapes her. He's not… _him_. Oh, he's Rumplestiltskin. She recognizes the shape of his face, the slightly hooked nose, the cheekbones. But his skin is pink and human, his eyes a deep brown. His hair, once wild curls about his face has gone flat and lank with his exertion. He's Rumplestiltskin and yet _not_.

"Belle?" He studies her for a moment before glancing down at his hands. "No," he mutters. "No!"

And then he's pushing away from her, turning, frantic. He takes a step toward the only mirror in the room, covered and shoved off to the side. But he doesn't get far. One leg goes out from under him and he stumbles with a yelp of pain.

"Rumplestiltskin, are you…"

"No," he says and she's surprised at the depth of sadness in that one word. "My son…" And he lets out a heartbroken moan.

"Your son?"

"My magic," is all he manages to say in response.

"Your…oh." Suddenly it all makes sense. "I'm the Slayer." When she says the words out loud his head shoots up.

"You…" He glances down at his hands, reaches out to touch the foot that she can now see is twisted at the ankle. "This was your destiny."

"Rumple…"

"I won't see my son again." There's no anger behind the words. They go straight to her heart.

"But the curse is done…"

"I need to add one final touch," he mutters. "The savior…"

"The one who will end it?"

"She must be of true love. Only someone of true love can break the curse."

"Use me."

"You're not.."

"But I am. Rumplestiltskin, don't you see? True love can break any curse." She reaches out and grasps his hands in hers. "Use me. Forget about your other savior. Use _our_ love…"

"Our…"

"Yes. You must see it."

He says nothing for a moment, just watches her. When he rises he does so unsteadily, managing to balance on one foot with the other just barely underneath him.

"What happened?" she asks as she rises with him.

He gives her a rueful grin and she finds this new face is going to take some time to get used to. It's more expressive and his eyes are warmer, but it's still not the face she's fallen in love with. "That's a long story for another time."

She nods. "Well, I hope you'll share it another time."

"Indeed. Belle, do you see that staff leaning up against the cabinets there." He points in the direction and she starts heading that way immediately.

"Of course." She retrieves it and brings it him, watching as he balances it in his hand for a moment before letting it hit the ground. He moves with it like he's used it for years and she realizes there is a _definite_ story there.

"Are you coming?" he asks and she realizes he's moved several feet from her. She steps after him and he wraps an arm around her. "It seems we have some work to do."

It wasn't quite the way they told her the story would go, but it's the best ending of that part of her story she could imagine.


End file.
